


The Bottom of the Bottle

by pluto



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluto/pseuds/pluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy Saxon considers her life as reflected from the bottom of a bottle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bottom of the Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Awesome Bingo](http://plutokitty.livejournal.com/26475.html#cutid1) that foxysquid and I are doing. Prompt: "Secret Marriage."

The bottle was the refuge of many a politician's wife, but it had never held much appeal for Lucy. After all, she had seen the End of the Universe, and it was hard to imagine any more mind-altering experience. And she had known her share of those drunken politician's wives--pickled women with glazed, cruel eyes and horrendous hats and unflattering lipstick on wrinkled mouths.

Still, Lucy had been the sort of girl (having gone to a good, proper boarding school) who was eager to try anything inappropriate at least once; and she was becoming the sort of woman desperate for any private refuge on an airship that, despite its size, offered none. So when she discovered the guards' liquor stash on that particular day, she decided it was a perfect time to have herself a drink, or maybe two or three, or ten, if she felt like it.

Of course, the other reason why Lucy Saxon had never become one of those pickled politician's wives was that she really didn't care for the taste of alcohol.

Three cringing swallows later, she tossed her glass away with a noise of disgust. Nurse a glass of wine at a mind-numbing reception, she could do; drink a tumbler full of rotgut in the underbelly of the Valiant, not so much. She felt not a little queasy as she made her way back up to the civilized levels, past the galley and the media room and the war room. Into her room. Harry's room.

Lucy opened the door hoping that _he_ wouldn't be there. If she was lucky he'd be off tormenting the freak or playing with the Toclofane or antagonizing the Doctor. She let out a sigh of relief as she saw the room was empty; most importantly, the black leather chair in the corner was empty.

And then she heard him inhale, long and deep, just to her right.

"Drinking? Oh, that's a nasty habit, my dear Lucy."

His hand landed on her shoulder, urging her to turn and face him. Lucy composed herself before complied, smoothing any surprise from her features. When she looked at him, she looked directly into the darkness of his eyes.

"Good evening, Harry," she said, sounding calmer than she expected. She realized that perhaps the drink had got to her a bit more than she'd first thought. Her heart wasn't racing with that peculiar mix of fear and excitement that he usually provoked in her. "Happy anniversary."

"Anniversary? Oh. I suppose it is, isn't it? How droll."

She gave him a tight little smile.

"Perhaps we ought to do something special for it? That is what you humans do, isn't it?" He took her hand, pulled her near to him, as if they were about to slowdance. "We could have a special broadcast. Some sort of party. Ooh. We could do it Roman style. You've already started in on the wine. We could just add the blood sport!"

"It wasn't wine," she said, flatly. She stepped out of his arms, walking away from him. She unzipped her dress, letting it fall; in private, he didn't care about her state of dress anyway. Left her shoes a few steps away, her stockings a little distance later. Oh, she _was_ a bit tipsy; the room had a bit of a tilt. At the edges of her vision, she swore the ceiling had begun a lazy spin.

She teetered a little as she yanked open the middle dresser drawer.

"Why did I buy all these silly things?" she remarked, tossing aside various silk nighties, looking for her flannel pyjamas. "Could've been wearing bunny ears, couldn't I?"

She laughed at that thought, being in bed with Harry in bunny ears--what was it he said to her, that one time? Something about _not exactly as bad as doing it with an animal?_ Oh, she'd laughed at the time, had even liked the thought, dragging down the high and mighty alien into her bed. Being silly and blonde and of so-called good breeding, she'd heard similar things out of the mouths of much lesser men often enough to be more amused than insulted.

But then, she'd believed he was in love with her, on some level. He'd never admit it --men like that never did. But she'd really believed it. She would never have said yes to him if she hadn't.

Not at the altar--what did that matter, marriage? From what she had seen and learned since childhood, you didn't marry for love. You married for all sorts of other reasons--power, profit, security, good genes and to improve your status.

But for love, she had said yes to all of _this_. Even faced with the blackness at the end of Time, clinging to his arm, terrified and exhilarated and feeling her tenuous hold on reality slipping--if she hadn't thought that he loved her in his way, she would've let him leave her there to die, as he so carelessly threatened. A joke to him; a choice to her. In that moment, she really accepted Harold Saxon for better, for worse, till death do them part.

And then she'd seen the way he looked at the Doctor. All that want, that thwarted need, all that love. She had realized Harry Saxon wasn't a human man, wasn't a spoiled rich Lord's son who might fuck other women but love her in his way. To him, she _was_ a dog. She was nothing. She was a dalliance he ought to be ashamed of, a scandal, a lesser being.

Lucy stood over her dresser drawer and a giggle bubbled up out of her; a giggle because she couldn't, wouldn't sob.

"What _are_ you doing?"

Harry's voice was soft but firm, almost harsh, like his hold on her wrist as he pulled her away from the dresser drawer. She wondered, with a drink-induced distance, if he might throw her to the floor, slap her, yell at her.

But instead he led her to the bed, waited for her to get into it. On his face was the expression she'd so often mistaken for love: an affectionate, almost bemused look, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eyes hooded, brows raised. And crawling in between the covers, she thought that you could love a dog, couldn't you? Maybe not like you loved a man, unless you were really crazy, but you could love it.

Maybe she wasn't wrong, to have made the choice she'd made.

Maybe she was having a happy anniversary.

Maybe she'd had too much to drink.


End file.
